The Once Unmarred Snow
by Morithil
Summary: A little vignette in which Aragorn reflects on his life, the task before him and an ancient battle that took place on Middle Earth as the Fellowship scales the peaks of Caradhras-COMPLETED-please r&r!
1. Momentarily Blinded

The Once Unmarred Snow

_"It looked to Frodo like the remains of an ancient road, that had once been broad and well planned, from Hollin to the mountain-pass...it was the cold chill before the first stir of dawn, and the moon was low"._

_ The Ring Goes South, The Fellowship of the Ring._

__

The air is cold. 

So cold, that I have forgotten what blood flowing through my legs feels like. And yet we must trudge onwards, and always upwards, scaling the peaks of Caradhras, for the passage south is being watched.

So cold.

I fear it will be the death of the hobbits, but I bite the thought back and urge them on, laying my hand on Frodo's young shoulders to encourage him to keep up the pace that Gandalf has set. I look up at him now, his grey robes trailing gently along the snow covered slope, his frame bent and stooped with age, staff in hand to aid his journey.

And yet so strong, tireless, as hale as one in the prime of his youth.

The sunlight blinds us as we travel up the peak, the snow dazzling our vision as we lower our gaze to avoid the sun's glare, only to be attacked by the ground we walk on, the rays of light reflected in every myriad of tiny white snowflakes and ice.

Caught between two suns, and yet in a place without warmth.

There was a time when a great tower stood proudly on the slopes of Caradhras, unscathed by the wilful nature of the mountain. A tower of pure white, its peak often crowned with a thick dusting of snow.

Minas Mãnlos. The Tower of the Unmarred Snow. Another white tower, so mighty and sacred in its high pedestal of stone and ice.

Until dark forces took it and defiled it, then destroyed it. Its fate became that of Minas Ithil, now the accursed and feared Minas Morgul, Tower of the Ringwraiths, which once was that of the Moon. So it was that another tower of Middle-Earth was lost to Sauron's evil arm as it stretched across from Mordor. And now the treason of Isengard completes the sacrilege, Sauron's evil coming full circle to claim the beloved towers of old.

Yet there is a faint glimmer of hope. Minas Tirith still stands, shining in the sunlight. I can see it now, if I close my eyes. Tall and strong, the pillar of the White City. 

Gondor. 'Tis many years since I have walked your streets and gazed out from the walls of the mighty watch points. Yet there is much fear and doubt in Gondor, in Men. My heart does not yearn for her as it does for the quiet falls and the twilight peace of Rivendell. 

Arwen. I have been blessed with the sight of your beauty and you seek to bless me again by offering your love. Your life. 

_You bind yourself to me, forsaking the immortal life of your people._

Arwen. I know 'tis not worth much in these troubled times, the word of a mere Man, but I love thee, daughter of Twilight, Evenstar of your people. Though I would love beyond life, death, I would have you leave these shores for the West. There, for certain, our love would live forever, would it not?

But only as a memory.

_It is mine to give to whom I will. Like my heart._

I finger the jewel around my neck and sigh quietly, tensing in the fear that the hobbits have caught the sound and detected the longing in it.

Sunlight flickers over the domed centre of Boromir's shield, momentarily blinding me, forcing me to blink.

Son of Gondor, in many ways I think that you are like the tower of the Unmarred Snows. You seem, and indeed are, so proud, so brave, so fair. 

So uncertain. Still finding your way, although as Captain you know all roads. Boromir. I see him struggle from time to time. Wrestling with something within himself, which surprises me, as he is a Captain of many troops, seasoned in battle, skilful in fighting, decisive in strategy. And yet, it does not completely surprise me, for some reason that I cannot fathom.

It is long since I put my trust in other Men, or even myself.

Minas Mãnlos. You stood here, many years ago, and guards in the highest vantage points cried out that dark forces were gathering at the foot of Caradhras. Screams in the night and the clash of dark blades on bloodied armour. Defiant howls under the moon.

_And the snows ran red with blood._

•••


	2. No Longer Blind

_The great bell tolls out the warning. The men shake the sleep from their tired eyes and reach for their weapons. Archers inspect the supply of arrows in their quivers. Those who kept the vigil curse the dark for hiding their enemy in its cloying cloak._

I blink again as sunlight pierces my vision, holding a firm hand against Frodo's shoulder's as he stumbles in the wake of the imprints left by those up ahead. The long, even hollows notifying others that Gandalf the Grey is here. The small, wide prints complete with toes that Merry, Sam and Pippin have made. The deep, stubborn gauges that Boromir's boots have carved in the snow. The nothingness, the spaces of uninterrupted snow where only Legolas Greenleaf can have stepped without leaving a trace of his presence, his light Elven shoes almost dancing over the icy landscape.

_Brave warriors united in their common goal formed columns and rows across the battlements, stretching bows taut, gripping sword hilts with grim determination. They are here because they have to be here, because it is their sworn duty to complete, or die in the carrying out of their roles here tonight._

Down there, where the road began at Hollin and led up, up the mountain pass to Minas Manlos, standing like a beacon in the darkness below it, a pillar of silvery stone and light.

Snarls and guttural, unworldly noises came from the foot of mighty Caradhras. The soldiers seemed unnerved by the sounds, as if they recognised them from an ancient time long since past, when evil could be heard in every dark menacing monosyllable.

Gandalf pauses briefly to adjust the rim of his conical hat over his eyes to shield them from the now unforgiving sun overhead, taunting us with its presence as we emerge from the vanishing mist of our breaths. What a tower of strength he is, always a kind word to the hobbits, an occasional harsh rebuke for Pippin, but only occasional, a strong command to follow. A wiser or better leader we could not have had. I know this much; I myself would have hesitated in setting forth from Rivendell if not under his guidance.

_Their leader rises up from the darkness, his silvered hair and powerful countenance in sharp contrast, but his heart and his sword are as one. Ready for battle. He would lead these men to glorious victory or glorious death. Yet his desire is for the former._

Can I be a leader of men? A leader to unite and command, to fight for and to love? Suddenly it is as if that weight has landed on my shoulders again, and I am all too quickly a beast of burden. 

Can I do this? I have the power, this I have been told, but do I have the skill and determination to wield it for right and good? I am Isildur's heir.

_You are Isildur's heir, not Isildur himself._

It is as if she's speaking those words now, in my ear. 

_The men seem thoughtful, lost in dreams and memories. Loved ones, wives, mothers, sisters, children. All of them pause as if listening to some hushed internal voice only they can hear. All transported somewhere far away, far from the icy winds and harsh cries from the dark hordes below._

Legolas leaps lightly across the tracks left by Gandalf, his slender form dancing across the Istari-formed path. Long have I lived among Elves, and yet I cannot help but still feel like a child in their midst. What are my trials and achievements to their lifetimes of unspeakable joy and inescapable sorrow? If all the Fair folk leave Middle-Earth, then, and only then will I know the true meaning of a world without beauty, without song.

_The fair captain of the guard speaks comfortingly to his troops, parading the ranks, offering words of advice and encouragement to those less learned in the ways of battle. His long, fairs lock stream out from beneath his burnished helm. So knowing for one so young in appearance. He rallies the troops for the first onslaught of fire._

Frodo scrambles bravely onwards as the ascent steepens. The Shire-folk are a marvellous people indeed, defying all preconceptions that their appearance (particularly their size) forms. Small, yes, but tough and hardy. And no strangers to well lit fires, a good tale and a full pipe. Certainly no strangers to hearty food and drink, in particular, and for reasons I cannot fathom; mushrooms and, as Merry would say, "nice, crispy bacon".

Just thinking about them makes me smile inspite of myself. The world would be a dull place without them too, no doubt, without their cheerful natures, ever ready humour, and-

And their utmost significance. They, perhaps above all other peoples, are those we wish to protect. The Ringbearer holds the fate of countless peoples on a chain round his neck. May his resilience hold.__

_The darting sounds of arrows shoot through the heady atmosphere. Then, as if from nowhere, the clash of steel on steel, the cries of drawn swords, the thudding of bodies and the clatter of shields as men are swept aside by the terror os Sauron's forces. The black hordes have breached the lower floors and march eagerly to the battlements, others have scaled the almost impregnable walls to attack those at the top._

_In the midst of the madness, a small figure runs breathlessly to the bell tower at the peak of Minas Mãnlos, his tiny form overshadowed and unnoticed by those around him. He reaches the great bell, and throwing his weight into his action, grabs the rope and pulls violently with all his strength._

_Bong. Bong. Bong. Bong. Bong._

_The bell tolls out the cry for assistance, proclaiming its cause over the lands, its message heard by all and sundry across Middle-Earth. The Tower of the Unmarred Snow calls for aid._

_The young boy's actions have alerted other forces. It is likely that he has saved them all from disaster and death._

Frodo slips again in the snow and tumbles, head over heels down the slope to rest at my feet. I help him rise as he dusts himself energetically to rid his clothes of the clinging cold and wet of the snow.

He grasps at his neck and I can only watch as the whole of his small frame tenses before me. I follow his line of vision and behold what has ensnared the hobbit with fear.

Boromir kneels down slowly and deliberately, and when he straightens I can see the Ring shining at the end of the silver chain he holds in his gloved hand.

_A lone soldier leaves his rank and slip down the stairs of the tower, down towards the throbbing beat of the orcs ramming the last door which leads up to the highest battlements. It would seem that he goes to his doom by facing them alone._

Boromir is talking and his words chill me to the bone, yes, more than the air around us. I reach slowly for the hilt of my sword, and grind my teeth quietly as my fingers wrap around the long handle.

No. Please no. Not one of our own, so soon seduced by the power of the Ring. Not a weak link in the chain we have forged to protect Frodo and aid the destruction of the Ring. Not Boromir. Please, not Boromir.

"Boromir".

_The soldier sheaths his sword, and in one treacherous movement, withdraws the heavy bolt and opens the doors to Mordor's army to murder and pillage what is left of the Tower's valiant troops. He has betrayed them, and now there he lies, cut down by the entering mass, the price for his treachery paid with blood._

"Boromir!" The warning leaves my lips. "Give the Ring to Frodo".

He smiles, the smile of an errant child caught in the midst of something they should not have been doing, half apologetic, half humorously, as if to question my concern over something-

So small. Such a little thing.

_The tower lay silent in the cold morning, stained with the blood of the faithful and the treacherous, all honour and greatness robbed from the dead as Mordor took the tower for its own before the darkness of the begrimed and gore ridden snow. Where once brave men trod, now darkness and finally, no trace of existence remains._

He returns the Ring and ruffles Frodo's hair in a gesture of reassurance and affection before replacing his shield on his back and trudging up the mountain. Again the sunlight bounces off the domed centre.

But this time I am not blinded, and do not blink.

I loosen my grip on the hilt.

I continue up the pass, leaving only the marks of my step and the tatters of my faith in Men behind me.

•••


End file.
